


Indecorous

by LamentingQuill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LamentingQuill/pseuds/LamentingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a dangerous game they’re playing tonight; a scandal now would ruin him, and the consequences of crossing the line would see his family broken and her world in tatters. It isn’t worth it, this… strange attraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indecorous

**Indecorous**

By

_Lamenting Quill_

* * *

 

The large, dim candles cast twirling shadows upon the floor and walls of the grand Ministry ballroom, dark and willowy; mere flickering imitations of their masters’ every move. The wicks pop and hiss, unheard but in the brief pauses that fall between songs and laughter. Lips smile in long-awaited happiness, eyes twinkle with hard-won freedom and voices ring, the underlying message in their gaiety sounding clear: The Dark Lord is gone, and a new era dawns.

Hermione Granger stands off to the side, long fingers wrapped around the elegant stem of her goblet. The taste of fine elf-made wine lingers upon her tongue, and the warmth from the alcohol has dusted her cheeks pale rose. Her eyes scan the room, watching the merriment with mild enjoyment, but her gaze always returns to the man of the hour. Sometimes she catches him gazing back.

It’s a dangerous game they’re playing tonight; a scandal now would ruin him, and the consequences of crossing the line would see his family broken and her world in tatters. It isn’t worth it, this… strange attraction. Yet, when his eyes linger on her, illuminated by candle-flame and pride, she nearly forgets – nearly – until his wife regains his attention, oblivious to her husband’s secret desires.

Ron has been following her around all night, flirting and drooling over the cleavage revealed by her dress-robes. She’s annoyed so she entertains herself by wondering if he would emit the same behaviour if he knew the thoughts she held for his father. Thoughts so corrupt and sensual she felt her morals corrode with each passing one. She won’t cross that invisible line. However, the edges have already been blurred tonight with glances alone.

Hermione knows that it’s wrong. She shouldn’t be enjoying this game of Temptation Roulette they’re playing. She shouldn’t be participating, for too much is at stake. It’s his Inauguration Ball and many eyes are upon their new Minister, full of hope and eagerness of good things to come. Molly is at his side, loving and proud, and his children – her friends – are never far. The room is filled with his well-wishers and supporters, scattered with his enemies wearing their masks of goodwill. Enemies who would love to find the slightest little thing to use toward his ruin. If they aren’t careful, they will give them exactly what they need.

She’s been keeping her distance from him this night, afraid she might let too much show between the wine in her system and the infectious insouciance that seems to blanket the room. But she knows that she should offer him her congratulations on his new position, so she sets her empty goblet upon the nearby table and takes a deep, calming breath. She must be careful, she must be composed. Above all, she must let nothing show.

Hermione crosses the large ballroom steadily, mindful of various dancing couples and the blue eyes watching her progress. She stops before them, letting them travel up her form unnoticed by others in the dimness before she speaks.

“Congratulations, _Minister_ Weasley,” she says with a good-natured smirk. “I’ve no doubts that our portion of the Wizarding World is finally in the most capable of hands.”

Before she can hear his response, however, Molly is hugging her happily, proclaiming, “Hermione! I had feared you were going to avoid us the entire evening. Nothing is the matter, I trust?”

Hermione smiles at the woman’s genuine concern, feeling guilty for holding impure thoughts about her husband. Clearing her throat slightly, she replies, “No, nothing at all. Merely letting the others have the honour of your company first.”

Molly chuckles, patting her fondly on the cheek as she says, “Don’t be silly, dear. We would much prefer your company over that of any of these high society snobs only looking to form ties with the new Minister, wouldn’t we, Arthur?”

Arthur barely manages to get out the warm words of, “Indeed we would,” before Molly is speaking again.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t danced once this evening,” she says to Hermione, eyeing her curiously.

Hermione barely refrains from snapping that it’s because she has spent the entire evening running from the woman’s youngest son and his seemingly multiple sets of hands. That is, of course, when she hasn’t been exchanging forbidden glances with the woman’s own husband. Instead, she merely shrugs and replies, “I’m not much of a dancer, Molly.”

“Nonsense! You must have at least one dance – it’s a Ball, for Merlin’s sake! Arthur,” she says, turning to her husband, “why don’t you take our Hermione out for a twirl; show her how well our new Minister can dance.”

Hermione can see the delight in Arthur’s face at the proposition, but also the underlying knowledge that it really isn’t a good idea at all. But he only smiles, bowing graciously as he holds out his hand, and Hermione accepts it with only the slightest hesitancy. She’s being tested, and she hopes she doesn’t fail.

The dance floor is too crowded and the music too loud; Arthur’s hand that is holding her own is strong and rugged, and in contrast his other resting on her waist feels gentle and soft. The heat from both, however, sinks into her skin, penetrating her bones before circling back to rise in her cheeks. There is a respectable amount of distance between them, and Hermione resists the temptation to close the gap, to lay her head upon his shoulder, to inhale his scent.

“You look lovely tonight, Hermione,” he says, his voice low, filled with secrets only she can decipher.

“And you look quite dashing, Minister,” she returns silkily, inhaling sharply as his hand slides innocently enough from her waist to the small of her back. He pulls her the slightest bit closer than perhaps is proper, but it is doubtful that anyone should notice. Her heart is beating erratically, blood thrumming through veins that feel too small. Her fingers tighten their grip on his shoulder, digging into the luxurious navy cloth as her muscles tense. She knows if she relaxes them they will turn traitors to the necessity of discretion.

She follows his lead, chin tilted upwards so she may observe his face as they dance. He hasn’t changed much since her youth, but her perception has. While his eyes are still blue and shine with the same warmth and kindness, now when they lock with hers there’s an underlying fire – a longing for something they both know can never be. His smile is still easy and good-natured, but now something hides in the slight upturn of his lips; something tempting, something inviting, something forbidden. His manner is still humble, still friendly and accepting, but now she can see a masculine sensuality in his movements, a quiet strength, a subtle beckoning.

She wants to heed it.

They both know she cannot.

And the large, dim candles cast twirling shadows upon the floor and walls of the grand Ministry ballroom, dark and willowy; mere flickering imitations of their masters’ every move. The wicks pop and hiss, unheard over the moaning violins. Lips smile in bittersweet happiness, eyes twinkle with desire and regret, and voices hush, the underlying message in their silence sounding clear: We will never have each other, but we shall always have this dance.

 

 

 


End file.
